


Give to me your leather

by decideophobia



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluffy-ish, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-08
Updated: 2012-12-08
Packaged: 2017-11-20 15:02:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/586655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decideophobia/pseuds/decideophobia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I didn’t drive the car,” Derek answers with a faint smirk. Stiles is about to start ranting when Derek hands him a black helmet that’s dangling from his arm. Frowning Stiles takes the helmet and it’s only then that he notices that they’re standing next to a big black motorcycle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Give to me your leather

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this is my first attempt at writing a Teen Wolf fic (or any fanfic, for that matter), so don’t expect anything spectacular. I also apologize for the excessive use of italics. 
> 
> The fic is set post season 2.
> 
> Special thanks to my flatmate, without her this fic wouldn't exist; and to Dani and Ron, who are awesome betas. Love you guys <3

Stiles rubs his palms on his thighs. This is supposed to be easy, like, ridiculously easy. He’s not committing a crime; he’s not getting anyone into trouble—he’s just… shopping. Shopping for condoms. No big deal. No one will know. 

Stiles quickly glances around to make sure no one’s watching him. He looks back to the condoms and sighs. He wouldn’t have imagined that buying condoms could be an art form in itself. Why are there even so many different sorts of condoms? This is ridiculous. Maybe he should’ve asked Scott about this. But then again, Scott would’ve eyed him suspiciously and asked what Stiles would need condoms for. Which is, in fact, a stupid question in itself. What would anyone need condoms for other than sex? 

_Focus_ , he tells himself then blindly grabs a random pack before he heads to the cash register. He gets in line at the checkout counter, putting the box on the conveyor belt. He ends up muttering impatiently because, apparently, the cashier went to check on something and has not returned yet. Stiles sighs to himself. He doesn’t even know why he is doing this. 

He’s been asked out. By a guy named Nathan whom Stiles had met at the School’s Out. Stiles’ mind still has difficulty wrapping around the fact that _he’s been asked out_. Just like that. Scott had grinned widely, having been standing right beside Stiles, when Nathan’s walked up to them and asked if Stiles was interested in ‘going out sometime’. It had taken Stiles some thirty seconds of flabbergasted staring until he came up with an answer that definitely did not include sputtering of any sort or repeatedly asking whether Nathan was sure he’s got the right guy. 

So. It’s just a date. No need for condoms. It’s just a date, it’s his first date, for heaven’s sake. _Oh, to hell with it_ , Stiles thinks, one can never be sure enough, and hey, better safe than sorry, right? He’d like to have a little control over something in his life for a change; although he still doubts that he’ll get all the way to third base. Hell, he doesn’t even dare to imagine that _anything_ will happen on his first date. With Nathan. 

Stiles is drumming his fingers on the edge of the conveyor belt when someone queues up behind him. He glances over his shoulder— and immediately wishes he could just drop dead. Standing behind him is Derek, eyes locked on the pack of condoms next to Stiles’ hand. Stiles can feel his face flushing and his heartbeat rising when Derek drags his eyes from the condoms to Stiles’ face. His expression is unreadable, even to Stiles who’s gotten really good at reading the meaning behind every posture of Derek’s eyebrows, the pursing of his lips, the flaring of his nostrils. Now, he looks so guarded that Stiles can’t even guess what’s going on in Derek’s head. 

“Stiles,” Derek says calmly. “What do you need condoms for?”

Stiles doesn’t fight the urge to roll his eyes. “Well, what do _you_ need condoms for?”

Derek seems to think that’s not worthy of a reply. He stays quiet and keeps glaring intently at Stiles. 

Stiles scowls and says, without thinking, “I’m buying them for Scott and Allison.”

It’s almost comical how high Derek’s eyebrows rise on his forehead and if Stiles wasn’t distracted by trying not to smack himself for that stupid comment, he would laugh. 

“And why would _you_ buy condoms for Scott and Allison?” Derek asks drawing his eyebrows together in skepticism. Stiles opens his mouth to give an answer, but no words escape his lips. His mind races to come up with something logical, with something that would even make Derek believe him. Instead, Stiles’ eyes fall on the bar of chocolate that lies right behind the pack of condoms Stiles is about to buy. Stiles blinks confused. It takes him a second to realize that it’s _Derek’s_ chocolate. Derek is buying chocolate. Derek. Is buying. Chocolate. Stiles grabs the bar.

“You like _chili chocolate_?” Stiles asks disbelievingly. It’s a welcome distraction from the condoms, so Stiles stays the course. The mere fact that Derek is _shopping_ is almost too much to process. Stiles has never seen Derek doing anything normal like eating or shopping or… whatever normal people do. Still, Derek may be a werewolf, but he has the same needs as a regular human being. Stiles has to remind himself sometimes. 

Derek snatches the chocolate back and places it on the conveyor belt next to him. “You don’t?” 

Stiles makes a face. “I’m more of a caramel-type myself,” he replies. The more sugar the better. And mixing tastes isn’t anything Stiles really likes. 

Derek snorts lightly, as if he’s not surprised at all. 

The cashier is back now and the queue dissolves quickly. Stiles keeps glancing at Derek who is back to glaring at the condoms. Stiles isn’t sure what to think of it. It’s almost as if Derek is personally offended, looking like he’s close to shredding through the package.

“Dude,” Stiles says and nudges Derek carefully with his elbow. “If you don’t ease up on the glare you’ll burn a hole into the condoms, and Scott wouldn’t want that, would he?”

Derek’s eyes flicker to Stiles’ face. Stiles grins cheerily. 

Derek is right beside him when Stiles leaves the store. 

“Hey, does chocolate improve your mood?” Stiles asks, curious. “Like, do you get all happy and gleeful? I mean, you know, chocolate is supposed to release happiness hormones and all, so—”

“Shut up, Stiles.” 

“No, but seriously, I’m pretty sure some happiness hormones would work wonders on you,” Stiles continues, completely ignoring Derek’s interjection, and he gestures towards Derek in general. “I mean, the broody brows are your default expression and all—I don’t even know if you can change that—but I think you could use some feel-good-vibes, like, seriously. Your whole grouchy exterior easily brings little children to tears and sometimes, I swear, I feel like your ‘Fear-me-I’m-the-big-bad-scary-Alpha-glare’ awakens the potential serial killer in me.”

“There is no serial killer in you, Stiles,” Derek says simply and looks at Stiles as if the rest of his speech didn’t stick at all. 

“Oh, really?” Stiles grumbles offended, although he knows he shouldn’t be. It’s probably more of a compliment than anything else, but this is about principle. “And how would you know that?”

Instead of answering, Derek stops and leans into Stiles’ personal space. He looks him square in the eyes.

“You better get the condoms to Scott and Allison. Wouldn’t want to keep them waiting, would you?” he says and Stiles swears on everything important in his life that there is wild amusement in Derek’s eyes. 

Only now Stiles realizes that he’s standing next to his jeep, and Derek is already walking away. Stiles fumbles with his keys, gets in the car, and then buries the condoms deep in his bag. When he turns the key in the ignition the jeep makes some grumbling noises and— dies. Stiles tries to start the engine again and nothing happens. 

He blinks then groans and rattles the steering wheel. “Seriously?” he asks his jeep and rests his forehead again his hands. 

When he looks up again, Derek is standing in front of the jeep, like the creeper he is, eyebrows raised ridiculously high once more. There is something like a grin tugging at the corners of his lips, as if this were some seriously fun stuff to him. Stiles considers teaching Derek how to have a _real_ sense of humor; he’s just not sure if it would work at all. 

“What?” Stiles snaps at him instead. Derek looks like he has to battle the muscles in his face to stop himself from grinning.

“Need a ride?” Derek asks with a weird twitch in his face. Stiles mutters some curses at his jeep, at his life, and then at Derek and the stupid sort-of-a-grin on his face before he grabs his bag and gets out of his dead car. He slams the door shut and starts following Derek who’s already swiftly strutting across the parking lot. 

Stiles stares at Derek’s back; he can’t help it. It’s insane how smooth Derek’s movements are, how sexy his swagger is. He admires the way the worn leather jacket wraps around Derek’s shoulders and how the sunlight catches in his dark hair. Stiles curses and praises Derek Hale’s whole existence at the same time, feeling like an idiot because he’s paying attention to _how the fucking sunlight catches in Derek’s hair_. Really? Oh God. He should reevaluate his life choices. 

He almost runs Derek over, not noticing that he has come to a halt. Stiles glances around confused, looking for the black, sleek Camaro. 

“Dude, where’s your car?” Stiles asks irritated. 

“I didn’t drive the car,” Derek answers with a faint smirk. Stiles is about to start ranting when Derek hands him a black helmet that’s dangling from his arm. Frowning Stiles takes the helmet and it’s only then that he notices that they’re standing next to a big black motorcycle. Stiles’ jaw drops. 

“A motorcycle?” he asks, his eyes flickering from the vehicle to Derek and back. Stiles can’t quite decide whether this is awesome or deeply terrifying. Because, boy, _Derek owns a motorcycle_. He not only owns it, he drives it. Stiles idly wonders if he should be surprised or not. He goes for not surprised because damn, this is awesome. Also, this is so not going to be a jerk-off fantasy sometime in the near future.

“Dude!” Stiles exclaims, short of anything else to say. Derek shrugs off his leather jacket and hands it, too, to Stiles. It’s a warm, sunny day, so Stiles doesn’t really understand why Derek would (a) run around in his jacket to begin with and (b) decide to give it to him. 

“Stiles, put on the jacket,” Derek commands. “I don’t want you on the motorcycle without at least a little protection.” 

“What, are you such a horrible driver?” Stiles teases, but slips his arms into the sleeves of the heavy jacket. It smells a little like fresh wood with an underlying but very faint note of— is it smoke?— but also like a roughly spicy perfume and worn out leather. There isn’t a name for the mixtures of those scents, but Stiles could only describe it as _Derek_. 

Derek rolls his eyes again and watches while Stiles straps his bag on his back. Stiles glances at the helmet then at the motorcycle. He’s sure the helmet will look ridiculous on him, but he’s not going to fight Derek over it, so he simply puts it on. Derek helps to position it right, fastening it to Stiles’ head. Stiles can’t help but stare at Derek’s face while Derek is busy working on tightening the belt on the helmet. And while Derek doesn’t pay attention to what exactly Stiles is doing, Stiles’ eyes linger on Derek’s mouth that has its usual hard line to it. Stiles’ fingers twitch with the desire to brush over Derek’s lips, to make that hard line disappear. There is a furrow between the Alpha’s brows, also a familiar feature, and Stiles fights the urge to smoothen it with the tips of his fingers. Distinctly, Stiles wonders what Derek was like before the fire.

Stiles snaps back into his current situation when Derek hits the helmet with his flat hand with more force than necessary. To Stiles’ chagrin, Derek doesn’t seem very intimidated be the glowering look Stiles shoots him through the visor.

Stiles feels his palms getting sweaty again, this time from excitement. His heart is pounding heavily in his chest. He shifts his weight from one leg to the other repeatedly, both dreading and anticipating the moment he can finally climb the motorcycle. Derek—of course— looks stupidly graceful when he swings one of his legs over the vehicle. Stiles scrambles a little to get onto the motorcycle, flailing what with all uncooperative limbs. He’s sure Derek looks ridiculously attractive, all dark and gloomy on his motorcycle, while Stiles just looks like he doesn’t belong. He draws in a deep breath, his heart pounding hard in his chest. Stiles is struck by the thought that this is, in fact, the very first time he gets to ride a motorcycle, even if only as a passenger. 

Derek turns as far as possible around to him, gazing right into Stiles’ eyes. “You have to lean into the curves with me. And you have to hold on tightly.”

Stiles shifts a little to find a more comfortable position. It’s hard because he’s basically sitting at the rear end of a motorcycle and—well, it wouldn’t be that difficult to fall over backwards. Stiles can hear his own heartbeat in his ears, excitement and fear both rushing through his body. 

“Go,” he just says to Derek and motions with a hand. 

Stiles has seen two people on a motorcycle before, of course—really, who hasn’t?—but he doesn’t dare to sling his arms around Derek’s waist. Instead, he reaches behind to find the handle bar in the back, grips it tightly, though some not-so-small part of his brain tells him that it probably won’t be easy to hold on to when Derek speeds up. 

Stiles’ heart seems to almost jump out of his chest when the motorcycle moves off. Stiles watches Derek leaning over and how his shirt stretches across his back. Derek’s hands are firmly on the handlebars, the sleeves of his shirt are pulled up to his elbows. Stiles leans in a little, almost losing the little balance he maintains on the small seat. 

When they leave the exit of the parking lot and Derek picks up the speed a little, Stiles can feel the pull backwards. But then, without looking, Derek extends his right hand and searches for Stiles’ arm. Stiles is too distracted by the rush of adrenaline to really notice, but Derek’s grip is firm and he pulls at his arm, so Stiles gives in. Derek’s hand guides Stiles’ arm around Derek’s waist, and the next second Stiles finds himself clinging to Derek’s back, arms around his waist, like an octopus. 

And. Whoa.

This is even better than riding a motorcycle. Stiles is a little disappointed that he has to wear the helmet, so he can’t press his face into Derek’s back, but the full-on body contact almost makes up for it. He can feel Derek’s abs under his fingers, and this is almost too much. Stiles can’t pinpoint when he developed his hopeless crush on Derek. It’s not that Stiles imagines that something might happen between the two of them, the thought alone makes him want to choke with laughter… and a little disappointment maybe, but let’s be real. He’ll always be that scrawny kid with the loose mouth to Derek. Stiles knows that he annoys the crap out of Derek, but lately it seems not as much as he used to. Yes, Derek still rolls his eyes at him, still tells him to shut up, and there’s still some shoving and slamming-into-walls going on every once in a while. Still, Stiles feels like somehow Derek’s gotten used to him and everything that comes with, well, being Stiles. 

It’s weird. It makes Stiles’ head spin with a thousand different thoughts, so he tries not to think about it because it freaks him out more when Derek just accepts it instead of snarking back. 

The sharp rush of air presses against him where Derek doesn’t shield him from it. He peeks over Derek’s shoulder. The world around him is a blur of colours, he can’t make out anything specific. The road ahead is like a tunnel, everything moving so fast; the wind is tugging at the jacket, and the tips of Derek’s hair move from the force of the speed. 

The shortest way to Stiles’ place is cordoned off because of road maintenance, so Derek ends up manoeuvring the motorcycle back to where they came from. _This is going to take longer than planned_ , Stiles thinks. They’ll have to go all the way around from the other side which means that they have to take a road that leads out of town and back in sometime later. 

There is another rush of adrenaline when Derek speeds up again as soon as they’re out of town. Laughter bubbles up in Stiles. He tightens his grip around Derek a little more, grabbing his shirt and holding onto it. Beneath his fingers, Derek’s heartbeat is strong and steady, so different from Stiles’ fluttering heart. 

Ahead of them the road bends sharply and Stiles senses Derek leaning, canting the motorcycle, bringing it closer to the asphalt. Stiles scrambles, this is too close for his taste, what if they scratch the ground? He can’t heal; he’s pulling back, back from the road. His heart stutters, before starting to hammer almost painfully. 

There’s a low rumble, his fingers notice it coming from Derek’s chest. ‘You have to lean into the curves with me,’ Derek had said before they drove off. There’s another rumble, and Stiles presses more into Derek’s back, and let’s himself be guided by Derek’s body.

They’re out of the curve in no time. Stiles exhales sharply. 

The rest of the ride is a blur, in every sense of the word. Derek brings the motorcycle gently to a halt in front of Stiles’ house, and then cuts the engine. Stiles is still plastered to Derek’s back, as if he can’t let go. Not only because it just feels too good—because, yes, clinging to Derek like a sticky something is actually really nice—but simply because his limbs don’t seem to get the signal to release. 

“Stiles,” he hears Derek say, and he moans a little. Stiles wiggles, getting somewhat of a feeling back into his arms so he can release Derek from this lock-embrace (which probably only feels that way to Stiles and not to Derek). He takes off the helmet and breathes in the warm summer air. 

When he gets off the motorcycle, he has to catch himself so not to stumble and fall to the ground. His legs feel wobbly. Derek is off the machine in no time, catching him by the arm and steadying him carefully. That doesn’t stop Stiles from grinning widely because that was _awesome_.

That’s when he notices that his dad is standing in the driveway of the house, like he’s just stepped out of the cruiser, and shit he just came home from his shift. His dad is eyeing them suspiciously, letting his eyes graze the motorcycle with a deep scowl.

“Sheriff,” Derek says, letting go of Stiles’ arm and taking the helmet. Stiles’ dad nods.

“Uh, hi, dad,” Stiles says quickly. “The jeep died and Derek offered me a ride.”

“Thank you, Derek.” Sheriff Stilinski nods again in Derek’s direction. 

“Anytime,” Derek replies, before putting the helmet on. Stiles turns to his dad again and follows him inside the house. His father’s calmness is a little unsettling; Stiles was sure that he’d ask him all about Derek and— _“A motorcycle, really, Stiles?”_ —but apparently his dad had accepted that there were certain things he shouldn’t bother questioning.

“I didn’t know Derek had a motorcycle,” his dad says in the kitchen. 

Well, maybe his dad chooses to remain calm instead of freaking out.

“Neither did I,” Stiles replies shrugging. He slides his bag off his shoulders. “Pretty cool, though, huh? I mean, whoa, the ride was a _blast_!”

“So, this is how well you know Derek now?” the Sheriff asks, looking intently at Stiles. 

“Uh,” Stiles kneads his hands. “Well, yeah.”

His dad sighs and rubs a hand over his head, nodding slightly. “At least he’s made you wear the jacket and the helmet. That’s very exemplary.”

Stiles laughs at that. “Well, he wouldn’t want to mess with you”—he gestures at himself—“Sheriff’s kid and all. He wouldn’t risk getting into trouble with you.”

They are quiet for a moment. 

“Do you think, uh—”

“No, you’re not getting a motorcycle license, Stiles,” his father cuts off. He gives him the look that says, _this isn’t up for discussion_ , and Stiles knows better than to argue. He is a little disappointed, though. But, on the other hand, there’s no reason in getting the license without having a motorcycle he could actually ride.

He grabs his bag and runs upstairs, throws it into a corner of his room and slams into the desk chair. Derek’s familiar scent reaches his nostrils. The jacket. 

The jacket! Stiles forgot to take it off and now Derek took off without it. Stiles reaches into the pocket of his jeans to pull out his phone, but drops it on the desk. _There’s no need to rush this_ , Stiles thinks. It’s summer, it’s warm, Derek won’t need it back too soon. And when he will, Derek will let Stiles know. 

Stiles buries his nose in the collar of the worn leather and inhales deeply. If he could make a cologne out of Derek’s scent, he’d do it and cover himself in it. _It’s almost embarrassing_ , he thinks, that he’s sniffing the jacket—no, he’s not _sniffing_ —unlike some others, he’s not a wolf. He’s _smelling_. However, it’s not his fault that Derek smells so good. 

And no, he isn’t being completely foolish when he sprawls the jacket out on the bed to lay on it and smell it when he goes to sleep. 

※

The next day—which is the day of his date night—Stiles gets a text from Nathan cancelling the date. Stiles stares at his phone for a couple of minutes, reading the message again and again, until he groans in frustration and throws the cell onto his bed. 

This has to be a joke, right?

Stiles laughs at himself. Why did he even let himself believe that something like this would work out? Of course it wouldn’t. Maybe he jinxed it when he’s bought the condoms, and for a split second, Stiles curses himself for actually buying them. But then again, he just isn’t that lucky. Nathan would’ve probably cancelled on him even if Stiles hadn’t bought the condoms. 

Why can’t he have nice things? Doesn’t he deserve to have a good time—many good times, actually—what with all the werewolves and Kanimas and evil grandpas going on in his life? Seriously, though. 

Stiles picks up his phone again and dials Scott’s number. “Dude,” he says the second his best friend answers. “That jackass cancelled on me.”

“That sucks, man,” Scott replies sympathetically. “Did he say why?”

“Nope. Just a meaningless ‘sorry, can’t make it tonight’,” Stiles grumbles. He’s on the verge of texting Nathan back and asking for an explanation but he knows better than that. He has some dignity left and hey, it’s Nathan’s loss, right?

“You want me to scare him a little?” Scott asks, and Stiles laughs out loud. It makes him irrationally happy that his best friend is offering that. 

“No, it’s okay, buddy,” Stiles answers, grinning. “He’s not worth it.”

“That’s the right attitude right there,” Scott says, and Stiles can hear the smile in his voice. “He doesn’t know what he’s missing out on.”

Stiles sighs deeply. Scott’s touching support is really making him even more attractive, it’s funny. If he wasn’t Stiles best friend, Stiles’d seriously consider making out with Scott. Oh well, that a train of thought Stiles doesn’t want to delve into. 

“Wanna hang out tonight?” Stiles asks. “You know, now that I have so much spare time on my hands.”

“Uh,” Scott says, hesitant. “Isaac’s coming over tonight, but you can join us if you want.”

Stiles doesn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. He’d like to say that he doesn’t mind all that much that Scott is spending increasingly more time with Isaac, but he does. What can he do, though? Scott has a head of his own and Stiles will be the last person to deny Scott other friends. 

“Sure, why not,” he finally replies. “See you later, buddy.”

Isaac is already there when Stiles arrives at Scott’s. They’re both sitting in front of the TV in the living room, eyes locked on the screen, playing Mario Kart. They’re growling low in their throats, bumping into each other, trying to distract the other. 

“Why do you smell like Derek?” Isaac asks Stiles without taking his eyes off the TV screen. Stiles freezes for a split second before he sits on the couch.

“He lent me his jacket yesterday,” Stiles answers, casually shrugging. Scott’s player swirls dangerously. 

“Why?” Scott demands.

“Is this an interrogation? Because I didn’t come here to let you pester me with stupid questions,” Stiles throws back, sinking into the cushions and crossing his arms over his chest. He came here to distract himself from being dumped, not to explain why he smells like a certain Alpha. Stiles hadn’t even thought about that, hadn’t remotely considered that Scott and Isaac would smell Derek on him. But he has nothing to be embarrassed about, because, hey, they won’t know that Stiles’s basically rolled himself in Derek’s jacket. “But well, if it makes you feel better, the jeep died yesterday and he gave me a ride home and—dude, did you know that Derek has a _motorcycle_?”

Scott hurls his player off a cliff and Isaac’s bumps into a wall as they both turn around to face him abruptly. Their eyes are wide with surprise.

“Derek has a motorcycle?” Scott repeats and then shoots Isaac a look. Isaac shrugs and has an expression on his face that says that this is news to him, too. 

“Uh-huh,” Stiles says, nodding. “Anyway, the jeep died and he offered me a ride. He had the motorcycle and all, so he gave me his helmet and his jacket. I still have the jacket, I forgot to give it back.”

Scott and Isaac both drop the topic of why Stiles smells like Derek after that, and instead start discussing about how Derek basically fulfils every criterion to be a mysterious, dark guy with a bad boy image, with all the black leather, broody face and a preference for sleek, black vehicles. 

“Hey, did you do anything to piss him off yesterday?” Isaac asks while Stiles beats the shit out of them in Mario Kart. Stiles frowns a little, eyes firmly on the road on the screen and firing a red shell backwards. 

“In case you haven’t noticed Derek seems to be pissed off by my mere existence,” Stiles answers, still frowning and shrugging. “So if that’s what you mean, then, yeah, I did. Why?”

Stiles is hit by a blue shell from Scott who snickers beside him, before getting run over by another computer player who apparently had a Mega Mushroom. 

“He’s been even grumpier than usual since yesterday,” Isaac tells him. “I think I heard glass shattering at some point last night. And then Peter got really annoyed and, yeah… maybe he misses his leather jacket.”

Scott barks out a laugh, and Stiles snorts. He wouldn’t be surprised if Derek got really pissed off because he didn’t get his jacket back. 

“I’ll give it back before he decides to rip off your head,” Stiles promises half-heartedly. Derek’s sure going to be pissed when he notices that his oh-so-precious jacket definitely smells like Stiles now. Stiles brushes the thought away, hoping that Derek will let his fury out on either Isaac or maybe Peter or Jackson because those guys can heal. 

Stiles doesn’t try to hide his smugness about the fact that he kicks some major werewolf ass in Mario Kart, because hey, he deserves it. He deserves to be smug about this. Because he got cancelled on. By the time they’re done playing Mario Kart, both Scott and Isaac are grumpy messes on the floor, muttering to themselves about how Stiles beat the crap out of them and that not even several blue shells in a row could stop him. 

Scott offers to drive Stiles back home, an offer that he takes gratefully. He has walked all the way over to Scott’s house because his jeep is at the garage, hopefully being fixed soon. Stiles has to admit that hanging out with Scott and Isaac isn’t half as bad as he initially thought, and he really enjoyed the night. Scott _and Isaac_ have done a great job distracting Stiles from the fact that he really was (and still is) disappointed over the cancelled date. 

“Thanks, dude,” Stiles tells Scott, his hand on the handle to open the passenger door. “It was a fun night.”

Scott smiles his puppy smile, clearly happy about this accomplishment and claps Stiles’ shoulder softly. “Anytime, man, anytime.”

“Do you want me to come over tomorrow? Watch some movies or something?” Scott asks then, and Stiles furrows his brows at him.

“I’m not going to sit crying in a corner. You really don’t have to check on me and make sure that I’m distracted,” Stiles says, but breaks into a wide grin. “Why do you even bother to ask?”

Scott bounces a little, smirking at Stiles and promises to bring some snacks before Stiles leaves the car. Stiles rubs a hand over his hair, letting out a small sigh. It’s almost hard to believe that a cancelled date is the biggest problem he has to deal with now, since Jackson got cured from turning into a murderous lizard and Gerard disappeared. He’s back to his normal teenage problems, and Stiles isn’t sure whether or not he preferred the supernatural conflicts. 

※

When Stiles comes back into this room from the shower the next day, Derek is hovering by the window, leather jacket wrapped around his shoulders. Stiles almost jumps when he sees him—and mentally congratulates himself for being already fully dressed—although he probably shouldn’t be surprised at all that Derek would come to get his jacket and that he’d come through the window. Seriously, what is it with the window? Scott’s using the door, Jackson’s using doors, and Stiles is sure that Isaac doesn’t come into the McCall’s house using Scott’s bedroom window. 

“Jesus, warn a guy,” Stiles says annoyed, closing the door behind him. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you how to use a door? It’s really not that difficult and sure as hell less effort than climbing in through the window. Also, I’m pretty sure a velociraptor can work door handles better than you. Besides, it’s pretty creepy that you come sneaking in to get your jacket, especially when it took you a day to get it back.”

Derek grumbles quietly, scowling at him. It’s his usual sour expression; Stiles is absolutely not impressed. If Derek wants to intimidate him with a look, he has to do better than that.

“Stiles, you were _sleeping on the jacket_ when I wanted to get it back last night,” Derek replies with annoyance in his voice. 

It takes a moment to sink in, but when it hits him, Stiles eyes go wide, and his mouth drops open. “You were in here _while I was sleeping_? Dude, creepy! That’s like this vampire guy from Twilight. Not okay. Seriously.”

Derek’s eyes flash red for a split second, and he turns and takes a step forward. “Are you comparing me to a _vampire_?”

Stiles’ breath hitches, and he can feel his pulse rising, but he can’t stop the smirk from spreading across his face. “Well, you know. Don’t those guys have red eyes, too? So you kinda fit the concept.”

Derek growls deeply and loudly, and Stiles is glad his dad isn’t home. For every step Derek takes forward, Stiles takes one backwards. Derek crowds him against the door, so close in Stiles’ personal space that he feels the Alpha’s breath on his face. Stiles’ heart is hammering hard against his ribs; his face is hot from the rush of blood and he feels like someone has pressed the air out of his lungs. Derek is so close to his face that their noses almost touch. Stiles finds himself satisfied with the fact that they’re nearly the same height, so he doesn’t have to tilt his head up to look Derek in the eyes. Also, the close proximity is something he could get used to; he likes it more than he should, and then there’s Derek’s scent again. 

“Let me show you how much of a vampire I am,” Derek says roughly, still a slight rumble low in his throat. Stiles scrambles when Derek leans in even closer, nosing along the line of his jaw. Derek’s pulling back the corner of his shirt then; right before Stiles feels the pressure of Derek’s mouth against the skin where his neck merges into his shoulder. 

And then Derek bites him. Stiles moans, arching up against Derek and digs his hands into the leather jacket. His mind is blank. He can’t believe that Derek freaking Hale is biting him. Biting him in a way that is making Stiles lose his mind, leaving him wishing for more. Up until now, Stiles didn’t even know that biting would be something that would turn him on so much. 

Derek’s tongue swiftly runs over his skin before he retreats. Stiles is panting as if he’s been sprinting. Derek’s breathing is heavy, too. 

“Well,” Stiles manages out. “That isn’t exactly convincing anyone who doesn’t know that you’re a werewolf that you’re not a vampire.”

“I don’t have to convince you of that,” Derek grunts, pressing his own body against Stiles’. For a moment Stiles forgets everything, everything, because Derek shoves a knee between Stiles’ legs, and places his hands on Stiles’ hips. 

“Isn’t there some sort of vampire-werewolf-hybrid on the Vampire Diaries?” Stiles asks breathlessly. For a second, Derek seems to ponder whether or not to rip Stiles’ throat out with his teeth. Which is, essentially, also a vampire thing.

“Shut up, Stiles.”

Stiles doesn’t even get to say, “make me,” because Derek is already on that, pressing his lips against Stiles’, managing to be both rough and gentle at the same time, making Stiles’ knees go weak. Derek’s stubble scratches against his skin, leaving a prickly sensation. Stiles groans involuntarily while Derek licks over his lips, his hands travelling from Stiles’ hips to his back. 

“What did you really buy the condoms for?” Derek asks, pulling back. Stiles huffs. Now, Stiles is really not in the mood to explain why he bought condoms to Derek. He tries to lean in, to close the short distance between their mouths, but Derek easily pins him back and almost glares at him. Stiles sighs in frustration. 

“ _Fine_ ,” he says pointedly. “Believe it or not, I was asked out on a date, and I thought it wouldn’t do any harm to be on the safe side, but the guy cancelled on me, so… yeah.”

Stiles doesn’t have time to analyze the smug expression on Derek’s face before Derek’s brushing his lips against the tender skin right beneath his ear. Stiles wiggles, though, because there’s something more than just smugness. Derek licks over his skin, and Stiles bends his head to give him more room.

A shiver runs down Stiles’ spine when Derek’s breath brushes against his ear as he says, “Yeah, I made sure that you wouldn’t go.”

His mind is so clouded that it takes Stiles a couple of seconds to realize what Derek just said. Stiles pushes Derek back—or tries to and Derek gives in—and stares intently into Derek’s blue-grey-green-ish eyes—seriously, how is this even a thing? 

“Come again?”

Derek doesn’t even seem to try and cover up the self-satisfied smirk; instead he slots their mouths together and kisses Stiles once more.

Stiles, who loves words and who’s been told he can create vivid pictures with his phrases, doesn’t know how to describe the feeling when his tongue meets Derek’s for the first time. There is just nothing that comes close to properly explain it. One of Derek’s hands wraps around his neck, the other running softly down his side, and his knee between Stiles’ legs slides up further, making Stiles ride Derek’s thigh. 

Derek releases Stiles’ mouth, and then runs his lips along Stiles’ jaw until he meets the spot he bit earlier. Stiles fidgets, but only finds himself involuntarily rubbing his crotch against Derek’s thigh—which isn’t helpful at all. And while Derek is busy sucking a bruise into Stiles’ skin, Stiles can’t stop himself from groaning again, pulling at the leather jacket to get it off Derek’s shoulders. Surprisingly, Derek lets Stiles push the heavy thing off, temporarily removing his hands from Stiles’ body. The jacket falls with a small _thud_ to the floor. 

Derek runs his hand up Stiles’ thigh and pulls back from his neck. Stiles looks at him, looks at his eyes that speak of a hungry desire. Derek leans forward to kiss him again—but freezes.

And then he’s gone. 

Stiles pants, blinking, confused, and is about to start grumbling about _Derek fucking Hale_ , when someone tries to push open the bedroom door he’s still so firmly pressed against. He jumps, stepping back. His feet catch on the leather jacket he brushed off Derek’s shoulders, when Scott opens the door, staring blankly at him.

“Dude, why do you reek like Derek?” Scott asks him suspiciously, eyes narrowing and then sniffing the air. “Why does _your whole room_ reek like Derek?”

Stiles praises himself for wearing a shirt that covers the hickey Derek’s sucked into his neck. Still a little shaky, he reaches down to grab the jacket. He rattles it in front of Scott’s face before placing it carefully on his bed.

“Still got the jacket,” Stiles says, and his voice sounds hoarse, rough with all the crazy feelings that hit him like an anvil just a couple of minutes ago. Scott just shakes his head, disbelievingly. 

“The jacket doesn’t drench you—or your room—in that smell,” Scott argues. His eyes skim the room, like he’s searching for any sign of… Derek. Except there is none. And luckily Scott doesn’t seem to pinpoint what happened right before he entered the room. 

Stiles goes for distraction. Distraction for himself, to calm himself and his body, and distraction for Scott so he doesn’t get to ask suspicious questions.

“Dude, did you know Derek likes _chili chocolate_?”


End file.
